“Msikubali hiyo mambo wanawaambia, sijui bottom-up economy, sijui nini. Since when did anything trickle up?”
I’m having a hard time listening to the political babble frothing from the mouth of the man on the mountain. Well, not a mountain per se, he’s on top of a rickety dais thrown together by his sycophants, but still… I’m distracted by his stomach.
His midsection is so large, it should have its own postal code. So enormous, it should be its own species; something related to whales. Balaenoptera tumbocious Ponda. Yeah, that would suffice.
“Sasa bottom-up economy ndiyo nini? Wheelbarrows na mikokoteni? How is that supposed to make Mama Mboga’s life better? Or the boda boda rider eking out a dangerous living huko kwa barabara? Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see engineers, doctors, technicians. Presidents, even. Not watu wa mikono.”
The crowd of engineers and technicians breaks into uproarious applause. I know this tactic. I’ve seen it at play down at the drinking well, where men go to drown their sorrows. Those who run out of their savings sooner than the others (or didn’t bring any coins to start with), go around the tables soliciting drinks from the fat cats. To loosen his targets’ wallets, the beggar applies such titles as “Mkubwa,” “Engineer,” “Daktari” and so on. “Hey, Chief, uko hapa? Niaje kunitupa hivo?”
“Mnajua vile wanasemanga huko majuu?” says Ponda Mali, the man on the dais, our incumbent MP and wannabe “Mkubwa” for life. “Wanasemanga, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” He gets mixed reactions, has to explain further. “Inamaanisha, what we have now is working perfectly. Why promise people things we can’t deliver?”
“Speak for yourself,” says Mwenda, Jiji Ndogo’s resident crazy dude. “Nothing is working around here.”
“Okay, citizen.” Ponda Mali says. “What would you like us to fix?”
“That’s a very good question, Timotheo.”
“My name is Ponda Mali, but go ahead.”
“Timotheo! It’s very rude to talk back to your teacher. It’s called sassing, and only bad boys sass.”
That went south fast. But I, too, am curious. Are we this jaded? So lethargic that anything but the status quo is too much of a chore?
Acha niwaambie, my friends,” Mr Mali says. “Trickle-down economy works. The rich get richer, and they give to the poor. It’s a success in America and all over Europe. Why would anyone argue with people who are making cars that drive themselves? You think my friend Elon would’ve made Tesla if he had started with a mkokoteni?”
“Achana na huyo,” Denno shouts from the back. “Anataka kutuharibia hustle. Sasa boda zikianza kujiendesha, na sisi tutoe wira wapi?”
“Young man, I promise you mtakuwa mkiziunda. I know last time I promised you all a factory right here in Jiji Ndogo. Sijasahau. If it wasn’t for this confounded Covid? Nyinyi wote mngekuwa mnalala unono by now.
“If only it wasn’t for the unbelievably stupid coincidence that the contractors who were to build the factory happen to be situated in Wuhan, kule Shaina. Lakini, today I swear on my grandmother’s grave, once you elect me, before the end of the first year of this coming Parliament, Jiji Ndogo will be contributing to the global carbon crisis. Bora tu hii Omicron iwe imeisha.”
I turn to Sophia. “This is the guy you were getting all sexy for so we can get a car?”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Look at him. When was the last time he saw his penis? If he didn’t use it to pee, I swear he’d forget it exists.”
